


Bodyguard

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Crossdressing, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Prostitution, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-25 11:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Captain John Watson, wounded in Afghanistan, is looking for employment. Sherlock Holmes is looking for something else. Fortunately, they can solve one another's problems.





	1. A Harmless Compulsion

The evening began with a question. “How much?”

The deal was transacted without negotiation. I would not have known what counter-offer to make. In fact, I had been willing to pay a bit more. Perhaps a gratuity would be expected. I would offer, regardless.

The man was a soldier, back from Afghanistan, down on his luck, as so many were on returning home. It was a shame, really, that so many men who had served Queen and country could not support themselves, but it wasn’t a sense of charity that drew me here.

It was my first time seeking pleasure at such an establishment. I knew about such places, of course, and had even been inside of one, interviewing witnesses to a murder that took place on the premises. Such houses I had pictured as gaudy and grimy, full of mirrors, overstuffed upholstery, and gilded woodwork. To my surprise, it was quite staid, even modest.

On that visit, I saw no clientele, those gentlemen having wisely vacated the establishment before the arrival of the police. The men who provided services were all clean and well dressed, many of them in military uniform. I spoke with one who gave his name as Roderick. From him I learned that a uniform commands a higher fee. Many a man might scorn an effeminate partner, he said, but would willingly let himself be pleasured by a soldier. Perfectly reasonable, I thought.

I was not inexperienced, but not in the habit of seeking partners, either. In my university days, such activities were often winked at, but I had not been with anyone since that time. I had thought of indulging my inversion with a paid partner, but could not bring myself to that. It was shameful enough to desire men, but to pay a man to do that was dangerous, now that I had a reputation worth protecting.

There was another problem, too. I am not risk-averse, but seeking liaisons requires socialising with others, which is something on the very edge of my abilities. I am not particularly good at making small talk or following social cues. I am a solitary person, most comfortable in my own company. I had not minded being alone.

But my mind kept returning to those uniforms. I have always been drawn to soldiers. Call it a harmless compulsion. An unfulfilled fancy.

One evening I made up my mind to return to that house. I was not entirely sure how such business is transacted, but felt bold enough to bluff my way through it.

I dressed in a style not usual for me, a bit more expensive than my daily attire. The customers of this particular club were mostly men of substance and even title, I had learned; as such, they wished to conceal their predilections and relied on the house’s protocols to maintain their secrecy. On my previous visit I had learned something about the fee structure and was willing to pay for what I wanted. Gentlemen used aliases when visiting, Roderick had said, and, assuming that the records of the business already included innumerable Messrs Smith and Jones, was prepared to give my name as Mr William Vernet.

I met the concierge, a man named Belrose, and signed the register. He asked what type of partner I would prefer. I felt my face redden as I stammered something about uniforms. It appeared that this was not specific enough. Apparently there are those who wish to have a romantic encounter with a policeman or a sailor.

“Army,” I said.

“Officer or enlisted?”

“Officer.”

There are more units of the British army than I had imagined. I turned down a kilt, but insisted on a red jacket.

After these brief preliminaries, which included paying a non-refundable deposit, I was shown to a room nicer than most hotels I have stayed in, where I was greeted by a man in a red coat.

My nervousness must have been written all over me, for he smiled and inclined his head. “My name is John,” he said. “Good evening to you.”

“Good evening,” I replied, not certain whether I should introduce myself. Since I was using an alias, it hardly seemed to matter what he called me.

He chatted a bit about the sorts of things people talk about when they cannot voice their true thoughts. I suppose he wanted to put me at ease, but his small talk only escalated my nerves. As a result, I fell back on what I always do in awkward social situations: I deduce.

He was a small man, perhaps five feet and a half, a good half a foot shorter than me. His hair was blond, cut in military style. He wore a moustache, the preferred facial hair of military officers since the Crimean Wars. This was carefully groomed, a bit of wax taming the ends into handlebars. His tan and somewhat weathered skin told me that he had spent time in the outdoors; he was not corpulent, but muscular and well-proportioned. His face was open and handsome, his smile engaging and a bit wicked.

His thoughts were harder for me to divine. Clearly, he was saying things he always said to clients, trying to put them at ease. He might have been thinking what a long nose I had or how shifty my eyes looked or how I reminded him of someone he disliked. He more than likely thought how tired he was of the whole business and was mentally tallying his financial position to determine how soon he could retire. Perhaps he was merely looking forward to sleeping in his own bed, counting the minutes until he finally finished with his last customer of the night.

I was wondering whether he’d cleaned himself after his last customer. I supposed a house like this one had rules, or at least minimal standards of cleanliness. He looked clean, but the parts that most required washing were, naturally, concealed. I did not know if it was considered proper to ask about these matters, and though I did not want to appear to be a novice, surely the man would see my inexperience before we were through.

“How may I serve you, sir?”

“I beg your pardon if I seem forward, but as I am paying you for certain services, I would like to ascertain a few things before we get down to details.”

His face did not register surprise. “Of course. What would you like to know?”

I felt my face flushing. When I am interrogating a witness or a perpetrator, I am always able to maintain an appearance that most assists in that endeavour, whether indifference, trust, or empathy. In this situation, however, my face was traitorously betraying my inner unrest. I asked, “Are you clean?”

He did not look offended. How could he? His job involved anatomical parts that were employed in the basest human activities.

“I am, sir. I will use a prophylactic and provide you with protection as well, if you wish.”

I nodded. “You were a soldier, I was told. You have scars.”

“Indeed.” He raised his chin and met my gaze proudly.

“Show me.”

He took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. I noted a weakness in his left arm. When he had removed his shirt and vest, he stood before me, bare to the waist, and I could see the cause of his weakness before me. He turned, showing me his back. A large scar was visible on the back of his shoulder, like a red flower, where a bullet of some size had exited, exploding the flesh around it. It was a wonder the man could use his arm at all, that a field surgeon had not decided to amputate it.

“Jezail bullet?” I asked.

He nodded. “Went all the way through, taking bits of me with it.”

“May I touch?”

At his nod, I ran my fingers lightly over the scar, tracing the raised petals on his back and placing my finger in the entry hole in front. “Do you have others?”

He dropped his trousers, revealing not only perfect, muscular thighs, but a generous endowment. “On the back of my right leg,” he said, turning and bending. “I was hit again after the first shot, when a comrade draped me over the horse to get me off the field. So, not strictly a battle wound. Just bad luck. Gives me a limp when the weather changes.”

My excitement growing, I touched the round scar in his thigh. “These smaller lines around the hole — did they have to dig the bullet out?”

“Yes. Much smaller bullet than the first. Fortunate, or it might have gone through me, killing the horse. I’m sure his value at that point in time was greater than my own.”

“And what is this?” I asked, indicating a thin, superficial scar on his throat right under the jawline.

“I was jumped by some street arabs when I first came home.”

“Clearly, they did not get the better of you.”

He grinned. “Wasn’t wearing my uniform, so they probably thought I’d be easy pickings. Took five of them to wrestle me to the ground. When they saw I was going to give them more trouble than it was worth, they gave it up and ran.”

“And these, on your back?” Silvery lines. Old scars.

He laughed. “My old man. Got a bit rough when he’d had too much to drink.”

“What was your rank?”

“Captain.”

I studied his face for a moment, uncertain how to proceed.

“Would you prefer to give the orders, or shall I?” he asked when a longish moment had passed in silence. “Also, would you like me to leave my boots on?”

An hour later, our business was satisfactorily concluded. I paid what he had asked and added a generous tip as well, considering it money well spent.

 

My older brother Mycroft appears to know everything. I should cease to be surprised that he knows where I have been, who I’ve seen, and what cases I’m working on. I should expect him to know these things because it is his business to know everything. For several years he has called himself a minor government functionary, dismissing what he does as mere _clerkery_. He is actually much more than a clerk. He is, in fact, the brain of our government, its repository of secrets, and the only one who understands all the layers of intrigue beneath the calm surface of the British Parliament.

He is also an interfering prat. I have lunch with him once a week at the Diogenes Club.

“I had thought you were finished with the sporting house case,” he said. He was reading a document as he spoke. When he reached the bottom of the page, he lit a match and lay it on the service plate, where it was incinerated in seconds.

“Hmm?” I said, watching the page darken and curl. “Oh, indeed. Just following up, you know. Tying up loose ends. Nailing down all the wobbly planks. Sweeping up the dust and debris. Cataloguing all the odds and ends —”

A server rushed over to remove the plate and replace it with a clean one.

“Be careful, brother,” he said, waving a waiter over. “Mind your own odds and ends. I would prefer not to have to explain your _activities_ to any policemen _._ ”

He ordered for us both, as always. As always, it was something disgustingly rich and full of onions. I picked at the salad.

“You’re taking too many risks,” he said. “That fellow you chased into the park last month — the one who shot at you—

“And missed. As I predicted, knowing that he was myopic.”

“Even broken clocks tell the correct time twice a day,” he said sententiously. “A blind marksman will certainly hit someone eventually. Probably you. And I cannot forget the time you got yourself kidnapped and tied up in an abandoned warehouse. So prosaic. Or the time they threw you in the Thames with a bag over your head and chains on your ankles. It’s like a cheap novel. You’re getting careless, Sherlock.”

“This is dangerous work, Mycroft. Are you suggesting that I give it up and go back to cocaine to relieve my boredom?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I am merely suggesting that you need a bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?” I repeated unnecessarily. I had not expected this. “Who would want to be my bodyguard?”

“An ex-serviceman, perhaps. I can put out a call for applicants and weed through them, if you wish.”

“I can’t afford to pay someone twenty-four hours a day,” I said.

He smiled smugly. “I can. I will begin the screening process today.”

“I must have final approval,” I replied. “You’re not sticking me with somebody who hums all the time, or blathers on about rugby, or uses mentholatum—”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I have someone.”

 

Against my brother’s admonitions, I visited my Captain again the following evening. There was much I wanted to ask him, but I refrained, thinking he would be wary of my curiosity. I found him exquisite in all ways. Feeling his scars against my hands was the most erotic sensation I have ever known. He never made me feel odd about my obsession. Perhaps he had seen it in other customers.

This thought was oddly upsetting to me. When I spent an hour with this man, I felt as if we two were partners — lovers, even. Being reminded that he was only giving me what I had paid for and that others were paying him as well for other obsessions was unpleasant. I lay my head on his chest, fingering the scar on his shoulder.

“You seem preoccupied tonight,” he said.

“Perhaps I am,” I said. I raised my head, taking his face in my hands. “Do you enjoy this, John?”

He gave me a gentle smile. “Do you mean my work? Or this, now — being with you?”

“Do you enjoy being with me?”

“Dangerous question, my love.”

My heart contracted at the endearment. “Dangerous in what way?”

He sighed. “You treat me very well. Yes, I enjoy being with you.” He straddled me and kissed me again. “I think you require further distraction. I’m prescribing a thorough course of carnal activity.”

“Not love?”

“Love is a dangerous drug, my dear.”

I had to agree. But in spite of my dangerous feelings, I continued seeing him.

 

A week later, Mycroft sent a man to my flat with a letter of introduction. He was built like a brick wall. His features were small, his eyes close-set.“I’m here about the position,” the fellow said. I sent him away.

The following day, another man arrived with another letter. This one had the face of a bulldog and bandy legs. He grunted and handed me the letter. “No,” I said. “Go away.”

I met Mycroft for lunch the following day.

“You’ve got the wrong idea,” I told him. “These fellows are as dumb as my coal scuttle. As interesting as a bowl of porridge. I’ve had better conversations with kitchen crockery. They may be big and strong, but I am not interested in having an ox follow me around all day. I need someone I can talk to intelligently, not someone I have to explain everything to endlessly.”

“You must understand,” he replied, “that the type of men who are qualified to protect you also tend not to be scholars. Conversely, the type of men you might find acceptable company tend not to have the requisite physique, much less a knowledge of firearms and combat skills.” He sighed wearily. “I will continue my search. Until the position is filled, however, I will insist that you stop taking criminal cases. I’ve already spoken to Inspector Lestrade. He will not request your assistance on any cases until this is resolved.”

“What am I supposed to investigate if we eliminate criminal cases? Finding lost pets? Discovering who stole the jam tarts?”

“If it keeps you safe, yes.” He glared at me. “And stop visiting your sporting associates. The police have shut down two such establishments since New Year’s. I do not want to have to bail you out of jail for gross indecency. If that happens, you can be sure that Mr Lestrade will not call on you again.”

I agreed to his terms — and prayed for an interesting case that did not involve pets or jam tarts.

 

The week that followed this conversation was boring. Lestrade did not call, as my brother had warned me. There were no callers to my flat, no lost pets or anything else missing. Even though those were problems that could usually be solved from my armchair, it would have been a distraction to consider a minor domestic mystery or two. I went to the lab at Bart’s and worked on some experiments, but without the police work, it hardly seemed that anything I learned would be put to good use.

 

I continued seeing John because it was either that or my other weakness, the needle in the Morocco case. I had promised my brother to quit that habit as well, and a man can only give up so many things at one time. Without any casework, though, I might not be able to afford any indulgence much longer, I feared. Fortunately, I had some cash on hand.

John divined my moods easily, but did not ask prying questions. He seemed to know that I was distressed, and was solicitous with me. Sometimes, after my release, I just lay with my head on his chest, listening to his heart beating and gently running my fingers over his skin. It was immensely comforting. I did not know how I could survive without my Captain.

 

I rejected two more candidates for body guard. Mycroft communicated his displeasure. 

 

I felt hopeful a few days later when my landlady brought my breakfast up and told me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me. Mrs Hudson does not lack powers of observation, but she tends to jump to unfounded conclusions that fit her view of the world. In addition, her vocabulary lacks precision, a clear sign of mental laxity. All potential clients are either _gentlemanly fellows_ or _questionable characters_.

Nevertheless, I asked.

“He seems a gentlemanly fellow,” she said.

“How is he dressed? What are his manners?”

“Not elegant or stylish,” she replied. “Respectable tweed. Bowler. Carries a cane. Very polite,” she volunteered.

“Did he give his name?”

She nodded. “Watson, he said.”

“Allow me a quarter of an hour to eat and dress. Then you may send Mr Watson up.”

Fourteen minutes later I heard feet on the stairs, followed by a brisk knock.

“Mr Holmes,” said the man, inclining his head. He had a familiar face.

I rose, extending my hand. “Hello, Captain Watson.”


	2. Pride and Profit

There was nothing to say during the long moment that found me staring at my Captain, and him blushing and fingering the brim of his hat nervously.

“I’m — I’m sorry,” he stammered at last. “I did not know. I was referred…”

“Please have a seat,” I said, indicating the chair opposite my own. “Would you like tea?”

Sorting out the tea, the milk, the sugar, and the spoons gave us a few minutes to compose ourselves. As he poured milk into his tea, I studied him. _Decent clothing, less expensive that it looks._ He might have been a banker or clerk, so neat and respectable did he look. Hardly the type of man you would suspect of prostituting himself.

“I had no idea who you were,” he said. “If I had, I would never have presumed…” _Embarrassed, naturally._

“Tut,” I said. “If someone recommended me to you, it does not take a genius to recognise that you have some kind of trouble requiring a solution. Do not worry. I won’t ask who referred you.”

He nodded. “Thank you. Shall I describe my situation, or…?” His honest face clouded. “Perhaps my case will not interest you or be worthy of your time.”

“Like you, Captain Watson, I deduce things about people. You have no doubt deduced some things about me.” I felt my face colour. “I have made deductions about you as well, but the nature of our relationship, if I may call it that, puts us at a disadvantage. Though you have shared yourself intimately with me, I only really know of you what I have learned in our several encounters.”

He set his teacup in the saucer with a clatter. _Intermittent tremor in left hand, result of nerve damage. Acts up when he’s stressed._ “Of course, you are right. It is not prudent for a man like me to reveal much to my… clients. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps you would rather that we hadn’t met. If it makes you uncomfortable, I will leave.”

I filled my pipe with tobacco. “You misunderstand me. I am only asking that you be honest with me and answer any questions I may ask with candour, even if you do not see the relevance.” I opened my cigarette box and offered it.

He took a cigarette and leaned towards the proffered lit match, inhaling until the end glowed. His hand still shook. “Certainly. I will tell you whatever you wish to know.” _Not giving eye contact. Disinclined to trust me yet._

I lit my pipe. “Let me first tell you what I have deduced about you.”

He nodded, sat forward and waited for me to continue. _Apprehensive._

“You are a tidy man of regular habits, punctual and economical. You grew up in Scotland. Glasgow, I think, from your accent. You are educated, with a university degree at least. You joined the military and went to Afghanistan, where you were wounded before your time was up. That much, you have told me. You returned to London, not Glasgow, because you have no close ties to family in Scotland and you took your medical degree here in London.”

“This is amazing — How do you know this?” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you only just learned my name today. How could you possibly guess that I am a doctor?”

“I do not guess,” I replied. “Your scar told me this. When we first met, you told me that after you were wounded in the shoulder, someone slung you across a horse to take you off the field. I wondered, when I saw your scar, why your arm was not amputated on the battlefield, where any reasonable doctor would have assessed the arm as too damaged to save. The answer is that _you yourself were the field surgeon_. Because you were wounded, there was no one to do the amputation, so your orderly must have packed the wound and hoped you would not bleed out before reaching the field hospital. When the wound was examined by another surgeon, you begged him not to amputate, knowing that your livelihood would be compromised. Your mobility in that arm is limited, and it still gives you pain; as a result, you have been unable to continue as a surgeon.“

He looked stunned. “I was told that you had a gift, that you could read things that other could not see. I am sorry to say that I did not believe what I was told.”

“I am not yet done,” I said, smiling. “Perhaps I will yet disappoint you. When you returned to London, you were injured and wasted with illness, unable to work as a doctor, but your pension was small, and you had financial obligations. You are not a dandy, but appreciate good things. Clearly you are making enough to afford respectable, but not flashy clothing, and probably a modest flat in a decent, but inexpensive neighbourhood.”

His nod confirmed my deductions. “You have seen my situation clearly.”

“The trouble that brought you here today could be considered a legal problem, but you have chosen to consult me because you fear blackmail if you should go to the police. You have accepted the possibility of your own disgrace, but you do not wish to reflect badly on your family. Though your closest relations are dead, you feel an obligation to be their living legacy, the one who succeeded where they failed. The financial obligations that lie upon you are not your own, but those of your brother, now dead. You are endeavouring to clear his name,” I finished triumphantly and awaited his admiration.

He gaped at me wordlessly for a long moment. Then, “What do you know of my poor brother?” he exclaimed. “Who has told you about him?”

“Ah,” I said. “I have struck a nerve. Does this concern his watch?”

He jumped to his feet, knocking over his teacup. “Either you have pried into my life and are now pretending to know all of these things, or you are the devil himself! How could you know about the watch?”

“Calm yourself, dear fellow. I saw the watch. On my second visit to you, I was late. When I entered the room, you had it in your hand, checking the time. You held it as we greeted one another, and I noted the initials on the case: _HW_. Until twenty minutes ago, I did not know your surname, but as soon as I heard it, my mind connected these random bits, the initial _W_ standing for _Watson_. It is an older piece, as I recall, not the type of watch a younger man would buy for himself or receive as a gift. A young man flush with cash would buy a flashier timepiece. A man such as you would purchase a less expensive, serviceable piece. A valuable old watch, badly scratched, with the initials HW on the case, must have belonged to someone a generation older. Not taking you for a man who would buy such an item in a pawn shop, even if you could afford it, I conclude that those were your father’s initials, and that he passed the watch on to his elder son, who bore the same name, perhaps Henry. That you now possess the watch means that your brother is dead. That it was badly treated means that your brother was careless man, likely to leave debt. Had I been able to examine it more thoroughly, I might also be able to deduce that he was an alcoholic with with the habit of winding it each evening, leaving scratches on the case. You indicated on my first visit that your father drank to excess; such habits often run from father to son. I’m sure that if you look inside the cover, you will find the marks of a pawnbroker, since it is likely he pawned it more than once, as his fortunes rose and fell again.”

During this explanation, I had watched his face go from anger to surprise, through shame and sorrow, finally landing at resignation.

“I am sorry, Doctor,” I said gently. “Sometimes I forget that my deductions can be painful to those hearing them. If I have offended you—”

He gave me a sad smile. “You have not offended me. It is true, all that you have said. My father died when I was eight, my mother when I was twelve. My brother Harry, five years my senior, took care of me because my father had asked him to, and my mother made him promise. He carried our father’s watch with him, its constant ticking reminding him of his promises. Harry was my idol. I depended on him, never realising that his responsibility for me weighed on him, and that after my mother’s death, he could barely hold on. My father’s death left us penniless and in debt to unscrupulous lenders; he worked to pay them off. 

“He drank. Most people do, I’ve discovered, including myself. But not to the extent Harry drank. He drowned in his responsibilities. I never knew. The first time I saw him drunk was when I was in medical school. Though he paid my father’s debts eventually, he lost any hope of having an orderly life. Instead, he followed my father’s path, gambling, investing in shady schemes, and accruing financial obligations he could not pay. Once I realised what he was doing, I confronted him. We quarrelled.

“I was disappointed when I understood that he was flawed. I needed him to be perfect. It’s only now that I see how unfair this was, to hold his failures against him. He had sacrificed himself so I could have an orderly, respectable life. Not that he would have accepted my help, but I am ashamed that I never offered it. My conscience would feel less burdened had I at least tried to help him.

“When I returned home, my father’s watch was waiting for me, the only legacy left of my family, besides the debt Harry left. I took responsibility because it was my turn, finally. I wanted to give him something for all that he gave me, even if it was just to clear his name.

“My pension is small, proportionate to the time I served. After I spent several weeks in an army hospital, I was declared unfit to return to duty and discharged. I thought to get work as a physician, but my injuries limited my professional hopes. Sunk in despair and accruing debt, I met up with an army friend who told me how I could make a lot of money quickly and easily.” He sighed. “You look at me, Mr Holmes, and must see an opportunistic man who has lost all sense of decency and foundered on the cliffs of despair. You see a prostitute, a Mary-Ann, a rent boy, one who takes advantage of fine gentlemen such as your self. But you must believe that I did not immediately look to this life as an easy solution to my unemployment and growing debt. I was raised in the church, sir, and even thought, once, of becoming a priest. When my friend first told me of this way out, I was appalled. It sounded like a scheme, and illegal to boot. But once my purse was empty and I faced the probability of becoming a beggar, what he had suggested seemed less appalling. In the army, such attachments are rather common. I myself have sought comfort with other men in circumstances where women were unavailable. When I returned, I even found men preferable to women, if only because there is no need for pretence with a man. A woman expects romance; I had none to give.” He gave me a small smile. “This is, perhaps, more than you want to know, Mr Holmes.”

“Where is the watch?” I asked.

He sighed. “Stolen.”

“Surely a thief would not have kept it. Have you checked pawn shops?”

“Of course,” he said. “I have checked several times a week for a month now. He has not pawned it.”

“Interesting,” I said. “How did he obtain the watch? To do that he must either have taken it off your person, or —”

“He was a client,” Watson said bleakly. “A regular whom none of my co-workers willingly service. I was free one evening, and no one else would take him. How was I, a seducer of men, to be picky about those who sought my services? I did not see him take it. He asked for a flannel, and I turned to fetch him one. I did not notice it was gone until I went to check the time before my next appointment. I was horrified when I realised what had happened.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “I must get it back, Mr Holmes. I simply must — for the memory of poor Harry, who sacrificed so much for me.”

My client, in spite of his questionable profession, was a man of honour, I perceived. I saw it as a simple matter to retrieve the watch by suggesting to the thief that he might not want to be identified as a patron of such an establishment.

“Do you know his identity?”

“He signed himself as James Armitage— an alias, no doubt. The concierge may know his real name, but asking would lose me my job. I have learned, however, that he is the son of a prosperous land owner in Norfolk, now dead. To all reports, the elder Armitage was not so prosperous when he died, for I am told he left his son nothing.”

I must have paled, for Watson leaned forward, a concerned look on his handsome features. “Have I said something amiss? Do you know this name?”

This was a question I could easily answer, but not comfortably. I had no doubt who James Armitage was. His real name was Victor Trevor, whom I had known at university. In fact, he had been my lover for a time, and brought me my first case, one that involved bank embezzlement, transportation to a penal colony, assumption of false identity — and blackmail. His father had once gone by the name James Armitage, but had changed his name to Trevor in order to escape from a dubious past in Australia and begin anew in England. He gained some wealth and prestige, eventually becoming a Justice of the Peace. In the end, his past caught up with him, the shock of discovery giving him a stroke which killed him. I solved the mystery, too detailed to recount here, and Victor left university. I never saw him again.

The story of how he had turned into a blackmailer himself was one I did not know, but would undoubtedly have to contemplate now. At university, he’d been a good-natured, well-liked fellow, but I recalled times when he seemed a bit of a bully. My own character, being somewhat unformed at that time, responded to his advances, but over time I grew to dislike his condescension towards me and his constant need to boast of his father’s wealth and position. Fortunately, he seemed to tire of me as well. We saw less and less of one another, until he needed me.

It would be a simple matter for me to expose Victor. The problem, of course, was that Watson’s reputation would also be damaged. They were, metaphorically, each holding a gun to the other’s head, each afraid to pull the trigger. There could be no publicity about this matter if Watson, an innocent man, were to retain any hope of respectability.

“What could be his motive for taking your watch?” I asked. “The fact that he has not pawned it can only mean he doesn’t need the cash it might bring him. Blackmail, then, I presume?”

“Spite,” Watson said. “He tried to rough me up a bit, claiming he’d paid for my services and I should not object to rough play. I threatened to call the concierge and have him thrown out, but he backed off and took me under the agreed-upon terms. I told him not to ask for me again. Two of my colleagues have admitted that he abused them as well. This is simple revenge. He is a despicable human in every way. Though blackmailing a blackmailer would be justice, poetically speaking, I had hoped not to go down that path.” He straightened his shoulders. “Will you take my case, Mr Holmes? My career does not enrich my pocket much, but I will pay whatever you ask of me.” He bit his lip and looked down at his hands. “I do not know what to do, sir. This watch has more than monetary value to me. Perhaps we can find… some mutually satisfying form of payment.”

While Watson was speaking, I had realised several things. First, here was a man who could serve as my bodyguard a hundred times better than any of the lunkheads my brother would send over. Even when his wounds were less healed, he had been able to rout a pack of street arabs. He knew how to use a gun and seemed to fear little. I could offer him the job in exchange for finding the watch.

Secondly, though he was clearly a proud man who would see the job as an excuse to keep him sexually available to me, I was not willing to give up — or share — his lovely bedroom skills. He would have to quit his labours at the club of ill repute. Nor did I wish to damage his reputation and future prospects.

Thirdly, I realised that I was in love with John Watson. More specifically, his military bearing, his fascinating scars, and his tight arse. And his moustache. And his wicked smile. His charms were innumerable. I was the proverbial foolish housewife who falls in love with the dairyman. If that is not a proverb, it ought to be. It was, in fact, worse than loving a dairyman. I loved a man whom I paid to love me. His previous assessment had been correct: this was dangerous; it could not end well for either of us.

But I am an optimist, even a romantic, when a situation calls for romance. And here was an opportunity to prove my worth to him.

“Here is my offer,” I said, feeling like a romantic hero. “I will retrieve your watch and get this black scoundrel off your back. In return, you will leave your questionable employment and move in with me, serving as my partner and bodyguard — at double the pay you have been earning as a… a member of the oldest profession.”

“Oldest profession?” He looked confused. “I am no spy, sir. Nor am I a politician, if that is what you mean. Nor butcher, nor baker, nor candlestick maker. I am a whore, simply put.”

“You _were_ a whore. Now you will be a bodyguard.”

“You want me to give up prostituting myself?”

“Not entirely,” I said. “If you wish, you will still have me, your most devoted client.”

He twirled his moustache thoughtfully. “Would this arrangement not make me a kept man?”

“Once the watch is in your hands, we may consider ourselves even. If you wish to return to that house of proud men doing illegal things for profit, I will not stand in your way. If you wish to continue employment with me under the terms I have offered, that will be your choice.”

He was a proud man, I could see, but he also had an ethical code which nagged him to discontinue his illegal lifestyle. For several minutes he silently wrestled with my offer. I felt his gaze run over me from head to toe, and for a moment I saw myself through his eyes — my skinny torso, lanky legs, and ridiculous face with its disproportionally long chin. _What could a blond god like John Watson want with a man like me?_ Perhaps I should have offered him three times his current pay, but I could not do that without checking with Mycroft first.

At last he nodded. “I am your man, sir.”

We shook hands.


	3. A Man of Honour

We sat, tea was refreshed, and I outlined my plan to Watson. “James Armitage will approach you, I believe. He has given you time to learn that he did not pawn your watch. Soon he will show his face and make his demand. What he wants may not be money. He seems perverse enough simply to take pleasure in knowing that he has something dear to you. I think, however, that he will ask for payment of some sort in return for the watch.”

Watson’s face fell. “And it will never be enough. There will always be one more payment, one more favour. Harry lived this. I believe it killed him.”

“Your brother did, however, manage to recover the watch one more time, so that he could give it to you. It may not seem like much, considering the debt he left you, but it must mean a lot to you that he left you this legacy. I will recover it for you, Watson, and this blackmailer will not bother you again. You must do what I say, however.”

“Anything — you have only to ask!”

“When he contacts you, arrange to meet with him in some public place. Appear cautious, but not desperate. When he has made his offer, do not accept or reject it, but ask for time to consider it. And do not, under _any_ circumstances, reveal that you have engaged my services. Clear?”

He nodded. “He must think he is dealing only with me.”

“Correct. Meanwhile, I will surreptitiously watch his house, noting his daily habits. Once I have established a pattern of departures and returns, I will break into the house while he is out and steal the watch.”

“How will you know where to look?” A look of enlightenment came over his handsome features. “Oooh — perhaps I can trick him into telling me!”

“Not advisable. You have an honest face, Watson, and are not accustomed to artifice. He will see right through you.”

“Perhaps, then, I could get him to invite me into his house and ask him to show it to me.” He looked pleased with himself. “I could say, _Prove to me that you have it!_ And he will feel compelled to reveal its location to me.”

“You would put yourself in danger by doing so,” I replied. “I will not have you risk your own safety.”

His disappointment was obvious. “I am a soldier, quite inured to danger. If you will not let me gather intelligence, you must at least take me with you when you break into the house.”

“Perhaps,” I said, not wanting to crush his enthusiasm. “Everything must continue as it has. You must return to your house of sport for the time being, for it is there that he will undoubtedly attempt to make contact with you.”

“That will not be public, though,” he said. “You said I should meet him in a public place.”

“You have refused to service him. He will more likely send a letter to you there, telling you where he wants to meet. If his suggested location is not public enough, you must send a reply, telling him you will meet him at the Criterion Bar.”

“Yes, the Criterion,” he said. “Shall I wear a disguise?”

I could see that he was getting caught up in the game and had ceased to think like a rational man. Perhaps he was actually hungering for danger.

“I think you look quite well as you are now,” I said. “No disguise.”

“I could wear a pink carnation in my buttonhole,” he said. “To covertly identify myself.”

“Does he not know you?” I said, exasperated. “Really, Watson. This is not a detective novel.”

He nodded sadly. “Of course. You are right.”

I felt sorry then. Enthusiasm for exposing evil must not be entirely dampened. “After you have heard from him, send a message to me.”

His face brightened. “Shall I use a cipher?”

“Skip code. First word, then every third word.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Lovely.”

 

I met Mycroft for lunch the following day. I informed him that I had found a bodyguard.

“His name?”

“You question my ability to find a person for this position?”

“Of course,” he said. “You have no doubt picked a man who either is quite handsome or flatters you excessively— or both of these. You have no experience in these matters.”

“How can you say that? My deductive skills have no equal!”

“No equal, but one superior — that would be I, your older brother. Tell me his name, Sherlock. I will find out everything there is to know about this man. Give me two days and I will tell you what he dreams about, what he fears, and the most shameful thing he has ever done.”

“His name is John Watson,” said I. “He is a soldier. And he is prepared to defend me.”

“Very well, brother. I intend to look into his record.”

 

Two days later I got a telegram from Mycroft:

DEFEND YOU AGAINST WHAT (QUERY) HE IS A RENTBOY (STOP) HANDSOME NO DOUBT (STOP) BUT STILL A WHORE (STOP)

 

I picked up my pen and composed a reply:

I WILL ACCEPT NO OTHER (STOP) HE IS PERFECT (STOP) HAS ALREADY QUIT OTHER JOB (STOP) DONT RUIN THIS FOR ME (STOP)

 

He replied:

AS NO ALTERNATIVE I CONSENT (STOP) BUT DONT BE A FOOL (STOP) I AM WATCHING (STOP) DONT DO ANYTHING INDISCREET (STOP)

 

I replied:

WILL HOLD YOU TO THAT (STOP) NO INDISCRETIONS (STOP) THANK YOU (STOP)

 

Two days later a message was delivered. The urchin who handed it to me waited, and I gave him a shilling.

It was from John, of course.

**J.A.** my friend **says** hello if **I** agree I **am** a dear **to** rather simply **come** and visit **to** his own **terms** agreeing that **him** will help **by** something else **serving** to something **his** very unappealing **desires**. So I **told** a story **I** admire much **would** not want **think** you’re angry **about** all of **it**. But truly **I** never will **desire** as for **me** I really **to** love only **you** simply true **love**.

I studied this for longer than it was worth. At least he had tried, and probably enjoyed the intrigue. My lover was fluent in the language of romance, but unable to compose a simple skip code message. I imagined him writing, tongue clamped firmly between his lips; then smiling, sealing the envelope, and handing it over to the boy. Thinking of this made me unreasonably happy.

The boy waited. I sent a reply:

CRITERION NOON

Then his sad face rose up in my memory.

WEAR PINK CARNATION

 

I walked into the Criterion at noon. He was in a corner booth, wearing a red carnation in the lapel of his tweed jacket.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “The florist had no pink this morning. Is red acceptable?”

_Love and passion,_ I thought. “Quite acceptable,” I said in a low voice. For his benefit, I looked around, scoping our surroundings as if someone might be listening.

He beamed at me and leaned forward, whispering. “You understood the code, yes? He thinks I will be his…” he cast his eyes about, then lowered his voice even more. “Sex slave.”

I felt disappointed in Victor, who had revealed himself to be not just a petty criminal, but also a predator. And I did not intend to let Watson give in to his demands.

“I don’t want to, you understand,” he said, giving me a questioning look. “Do you?”

“Of course not. Do you have his note?”

“Note?”

“Yes, the note he sent you. Where did you meet him?”

“Oh, well.” He frowned. “It didn’t work out exactly as we had discussed. There was no note. He simply came to my flat and knocked on the door. I hadn’t realised that he knew where I lived.”

“Clearly he has either asked someone about you or—”

Watson’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “He has been following me!” He said this a bit too loudly.

I laid my hand on his arm and spoke softly. “So it seems.” This information alarmed me more than I let on. If Trevor had been following him, he might have seen him come to my flat. “We must be circumspect, Watson. We cannot meet at my flat again, nor at the club where you work. In fact, I think that meeting here at the Criterion was rather unwise.”

“What are we to do, then?” His eyes darted nervously.

“Did you arrange to meet him again?”

“He said I’d see him soon. Perhaps he’s watching us now—”

“I do not see him, but we can’t be sure that he is working alone. He may have confederates.”

“Tell me what to do,” he said with resolution. “I would rather be the one who acts than the one who waits.”

“The chemistry lab at Barts is in the basement. Meet me there in an hour. Leave now. I’ll linger a bit and observe the other patrons.”

He nodded. Taking the red carnation from his buttonhole, he laid it on the table with a knowing wink. Then he made his way out of the bar.

 

I stopped at Trevor’s bank and asked a few questions, then made contact with several bookies of my acquaintance, knowing that he was probably defaulting on bets and had become known. The bookies all told the same story: having left employment, he was running up debts and trying to pay them off by gambling.

Finally, I stopped by one of my bolt-houses to get into costume. It wasn’t strictly necessary to be incognito for the interview I had in mind, but I thought it might cheer up Watson when we met later to see that I was actually detecting things, not just sitting around.

I arrived at the rear entrance to the sporting house dressed as a rag-and-bone man looking for items. “Ha’ ye any old linens ye wish to discard?” I asked the boy who opened the door.

I hadn’t counted on the fact that they might actually have old linens. They had quite a few, actually, and as the laundress handed the boy a rather large bundle of linens, I understood that an establishment such as this one must go through sheets faster than a forger goes through aliases. “Never mind,” I said. “I need to speak to Roderick.”

The boy fetched him.

“Mr Vernet?” he said, peering at me. “Is that you?”

“You recognise me,” I said in some surprise.

“I never forget a face,” he said, grinning. He leaned towards me, whispering, “Mr Holmes.”

I nodded. “I trust you can keep secrets, Roderick.”

“No worries, sir. I recognised you some weeks ago, but I know to keep my mouth shut. We may not seem like the most honourable men here, but among prostitutes, just as among thieves, there is a code of honour. Professional courtesy, you might say.”

“Thank you. Since you have a memory for faces, perhaps you will remember this face.” I showed him an old photograph of Victor Trevor from university days.

His genial face twisted into a scowl. “James Armitage. A dirty scoundrel.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Works in a bank during the day, at night he cheats at cards, when he’s not here buggering some poor boy. Prefers them young. Likes to rough ’em up. The concierge was ready to bounce him out of here a few nights ago. He’s a piece of work.”

“He is also a blackmailer,” I said. “Do you know his club?”

“The Byzantine.”

“Is there anyone here who might be giving him information about the staff?”

“Ah, you mean one of our boys acting as his intelligencer? It has to be Alfred Towns. They sacked him last week for indiscretions. Most of our boys know one another, our real names, I mean. We’re not so secret with one another as with clients. Alfred used to line up boys for Armitage, picking out the types he liked. Towns himself wasn’t much to look at.Wore a uniform he didn’t earn, not like most of us here. Don’t know where he’s gone. Is there somebody here you’re concerned about?”

“Yes, but I can’t reveal who it is.”

He nodded and spoke in a low voice. “Our Johnny is a good boy, sir. Anything we can do to help, I’ll make sure it happens.”

“That is why I’m here. I had heard that Armitage roughed up some of the boys here. Would it be possible for me to speak to any of them? No names, of course. I just need to confirm some information.”

I talked to two of Watson’s colleagues, both of whom told much the same story he had. After I prodded them, one admitted that Armitage had threatened to blackmail him.

“If you can get this blackguard, Mr Holmes, we would all be glad,” Roderick said when I dismissed them. “And next time you pay us a social call, me and the other boys will make sure it’s on the house. Least we can do. You’re a true gentleman, not like some. Johnny always speaks highly of you — only for our ears, you understand. He’s a good boy. Doesn’t talk. None of us do.”

 

Watson was waiting for me down in the chemistry lab. When I approached him, still in disguise, he frowned. “Are you lost, my good man?” he asked with a stern look. “Perhaps you took a wrong turn at the skip.”

I could not resist. Putting on my best East End accent, I spoke to him. “Looking for a Doctor Watson, I am. ‘E’s a gent what wears a bowler and tweeds, not unlike yourself, sir. When I spied you, I thought you mighta been ‘im. ‘Andsome devil, they say.”

The indignation on his face was worth the deception. “I beg your pardon — _handsome_? Who are you to be calling me _handsome_?”

“So you are _that_ Doctor Watson.” I stepped closer, thinking he would recognise me, but his face was flushed and he refused to meet my eyes. I spoke in my natural voice. “Handsome, indeed. Quite a lover, too.”

I pulled him into an embrace and kissed him. He did not resist. “Holmes,” he breathed when I released his mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” I said and resumed doing so.

After a few heated minutes of that, he pulled away, panting. “What about discretion?”

I sighed. “You are right, as usual, Watson. Back to business.” I tugged at my trousers, willing my excitement to wane.

“What is the plan?” he asked, also adjusting his trousers.

“I spoke with Roderick at the club. A colleague of yours named Alfred is apparently the mole. He has been working with Armitage, feeding him information on both clients and those who work there.”

“Alfred Towns.” He nodded. “He’s a sneak. Always listening in on conversations.”

“We haven’t much time. Armitage will soon pay you another visit, expecting your answer. It would be best, I think, if you were not at home. You will stay with me.”

“I thought you said—”

“You will slip into the flat in a disguise, my dear man.”

His face lit up. “A disguise! Might I be a woman? I could shave my moustache—”

“Not the moustache, love. You will wear a veil.” I smiled at the possibilities.

“Have you done enough reconnaissance for us to break into his house?” he asked.

“He was employed at a bank, but seems to be taking a permanent holiday. He leaves every morning between ten and eleven. He apparently has a broker who manages his investments. He then visits what are known as “bookies.” He has not much luck. From what I can tell, he owes money all around London. He then goes to his club. He doesn’t return until after dark. He is _persona non grata_ at your employer’s establishment, though he hasn’t yet been permanently banned. I’m not sure he will return there, now that your colleagues have turned against him.”

“Perhaps I could call at his house when he returns tonight,” said Watson. “That might put him off his game. I could keep him occupied while you search for the watch.”

“Or he might kill you. He is a man without remorse or gentle feelings. We need to think this through carefully, Watson. I don’t want to put you in a worse spot than where you are.”

“I’d like to kill him,” said the doctor with a savage look.

I believed him. Though he was a man of medicine, I could see in his eyes the soldier who had undoubtedly killed before, and did not appear to regret it. It was both chilling and oddly thrilling.

“Keep that sentiment to yourself,” I said. “There are many who might be glad if Armitage turned up dead. If he should, I would not like to see your name on the list of suspects.”

 

Watson was eager to find his disguise. I thought I knew someone who could help, a woman of his profession who lived nearby. I had once helped her locate the child she had been forced to give up as a young girl, and was able to find a proper home for the boy. 

I removed my wig and glasses and laid aside the rough clothing, putting it all in a lab cabinet which I had procured for my own materials and equipment.

We set out for Marie’s residence. Watson walked at my left shoulder, limping slightly, between me and the street, protective as a guard dog. We had not walked more than a couple blocks when a man sprang out of an alley and grabbed me by my coat. Before he could pull me into the alley, Watson was on him. The man threw me against the wall, where, momentarily stunned, I watched as my beloved hit the hoodlum with a right hook that could not have been predicted, given his injuries. Dizzy, I struggled to my feet. Watson had the man down and stood over him, his cane poised to strike again.

“Doctor Watson, I presume,” said the man. He nodded at me. “Mr Holmes.”

“How do you know us?” Watson demanded, holding his cane like a cudgel.

The fellow smiled at me. “Your brother wishes to speak to you, sir. He’s waiting in the carriage.” He nodded towards the street.

Watson did not relax his stance. “Is your brother a criminal, Holmes, that he needs to assault people in order to converse with them?”

“It’s all right, Watson,” I said. “Come along.”

The carriage door swung open as we approached. Mycroft offered a few coins to our attacker and shooed him away. I climbed up and extended my hand to help Watson. He scowled at my brother as he took his seat, but held his peace.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said sullenly. He turned to me, “You might have told me you had a brother, Holmes, especially one who must resort to violence in order to meet with you.” He gave my brother a look that might as well have been a growl. “If you would rather not see him, I suggest we leave.”

I grinned at my brother. “Now are you convinced?”

“He is certainly scrappier than he looks,” Mycroft replied. “That is a point in his favour. He does not look like a bodyguard, though. I would have selected someone more intimidating. The entire point of a bodyguard is, after all, to frighten off attackers before they strike.” He turned his gaze on Watson, who was looking a bit sulky by now. “You are a man of action, I see.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Are you a man of _honour_ as well?”

“I am, as you perceive, an opportunistic man, currently in a situation demanding some concession.” Watson held his head high. “Whatever vices I have or may encourage in others, I am, at least, a man who pays his bills. I have made choices others may not applaud, but I have ensured that I am not a burden on society. I may not be a gentleman, sir, but I am a taxpayer.”

I was proud of my Watson then. This noble speech showed no shame, no self-loathing. It invited admiration, not disgust.

Mycroft’s reaction was not effusive, but he did smile. “You are prepared to defend my brother?”

Watson sat up straighter, his shoulders back. “I am.”

Mycroft turned to me. “There is more to your little scrapper than meets the eye, Sherlock. I will pay him for six months at the rate you have promised. If he does not satisfy, I will terminate him. If he proves competent, I will give him a raise. Only —” he sighed. “Do not be indiscreet. There are, after all, laws targeting people like you. Do not give your landlady cause to gossip, for if you do, all of London will hear about it.”

I nodded. The carriage was pulling up in front of the building where Marie lived. I supposed Mycroft knew our destination, though I did not understand how. He knows everything, as I have said.

“And this Armitage,” Mycroft said. “Do be cautious. Victor Trevor was never worthy of you, but he was dangerous. James Armitage, as he now calls himself, is even less worthy, and even more dangerous. Do not let down your guard.”


	4. Like a Burglar

We knocked on Marie’s door. It was answered by an older woman. She glared at us a bit, but I convinced her that we were merely seeking to talk to Marie, she relented.

“Monsieur Holmes!” she cried when she saw me. “ _Cela fait un bon moment!_ How glad I am to see you!” She gave Watson a once over and apparently liked what she saw. “ _Est-ce_ _votre_ _beau_? _C’est tres charmant._ ”

Marie was not actually French, but I had increased her earning potential exponentially by teaching her a few strategic phrases. I was pleased to see that she had not forgotten her lessons.

“Marie, this is Doctor Watson, _mon compagnon d’armes_.”

Watson was clearly impressed. “Very pleased to meet you, my dear,” he said. “ _Merci beaucoup_.” He bowedand kissed her hand.

“ _Il est tres beau_ ,” she declared, winking at me. “ _Et tres poli._ So polite. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Doctor Watson requires a disguise. We are on a case, you understand, and it would be best if he appeared to be a woman.”

“And this adorable moustache?” she said, stroking it.

Watson flushed and began to breathe more rapidly.

“A veil will suffice, I think, to conceal his true gender.”

“Such a pretty face, though,” she said, laying her hands on his cheeks. “He could be quite a lovely woman.”

“Never mind that,” I said. “The moustache stays — non-negotiable. What we want is a suitable dress.”

She gave him her expert appraisal. “Except for _les ornements feminines_ , we are of a size.”

“ _Les ornements_?” repeated Watson, looking to me for translation.

“Lady bits. Breasts and derriere. We can pad where needed, _n’est pas_?” I said.

She frowned at his arms. _“Il est plus hirsute_.”

Wide-eyed, Watson looked at me.

“Long sleeves,” I said.

She sighed. “Such a shame to cover up all this _virilite_.”

“It will not be covered for long,” I said.

Marie did her best, selecting a dress that was dusky blue, to match his eyes, and stuffing the bodice with old stockings to fill it out. She rouged his cheeks and lips a bit and positioned a wide-brimmed hat with a veil so that his face was in shadow. Watson frowned at his reflection. “Am I a pretty lady?”

“You’re beautiful,” I purred. “I want to rip it all off of you.”

 

When we arrived at my flat, I did just that. Mrs Hudson ogled us as we went up the stairs, which satisfied Watson. When the door was shut, however, I quickly proceeded to disrobe him, murmuring blandishments in French as I stripped him. Watson enjoyed it tremendously, as did I.

Finally, we lay on my bed, sweaty and panting, our lust conquered.

“Oh,” sighed Watson. “That was… glorious. If only I’d known that clothes make such a difference. I thought wearing a uniform was the ultimate aphrodisiac, but I could be a rich man by now if I’d only known what a dress could do.”

“There is something I must confess, Watson,” I said, licking his rouged cheek. “James Armitage is not who he claims to be. His real name is Victor Trevor. I knew him once.”

He sat up. “Knew him? In what sense of that word?”

I sighed. “Biblically, I’m afraid. We were at university, I a first year and he a second year. I was rather naive and easily enticed.”

He was silent. “It would be unfair for me to expect that you had never loved before me. As a man who has supported himself by prostituting himself, I can hardly take a moral high ground when considering your naive affair. Nevertheless, I find myself feeling a bit… jealous.”

I fingered his scar. “There never was one like you, John. Not in my entire short career of carnal relations. You are unique.”

“You have never asked me about my past,” he said. “Perhaps you wonder. Pray, ask. I will be honest.”

“I know you have had relations with both men and women. Since your return to London and subsequent employment, I assume that you have had numerous liaisons with men.” I did not like to think about those liaisons, but wanted to appear open-minded.

He sighed and lay down beside me. “I regret them all, love, if only because you might feel that I was careless with my affections.” He leaned down, kissing me. “My affections, however, were never really engaged. Not until now.”

I kissed him in return. We held each other for a moment. “I have a plan,” I said at last.

“I hope it does not involve me wearing a corset,” he said, regarding the item I had removed from his waist with some difficulty and tossed on the floor some twenty minutes earlier. “I am in complete sympathy with women who call that garment an instrument of torture.”

“No corset, my love,” I said. “I need to get inside his house.”

“I could still distract him,” Watson said. “Even without a wig and corset. I will go to his house and seduce him. I do not mind, if it means getting my watch back.”

“No, Watson. I do not want you to seduce Victor Trevor. He is too treacherous for your sweet nature to overcome. And he has already been rejected by you. What is there to make him believe you have changed your mind?”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I will seduce him.”

“You?” He frowned. “I forbid it!”

“Who better than his former lover to surprise him and keep his attention?”

“And what will I be doing while all this _seduction_ is happening?” he asked petulantly.

“You will be awaiting my signal. There is a hedge around the house. If you conceal yourself inside of this, you can watch from any first floor window with minimal chance of being seen. You will wait until we are busy, and then — can you climb, Watson? Perhaps your leg will not allow it.”

“I can climb,” he said. “Wherever you go in that house, my eyes will follow.”

“Good.” I was not completely sure about his climbing ability, but mine was the important part. I would need to find the watch. “If I touch my nose, it means that you should cause a distraction. That is the first signal.”

“What kind of distraction?”

“A noise that will draw him away from me and cause him to look outside.”

He nodded. “I can make noise. Perhaps I will hoot like an owl. What other night birds are there?”

“None that we need worry about. Perhaps you can make a crash, like an inept burglar. If I feel threatened, I will tug on my earlobe. If you see me doing that, you can be sure that he is on to me and I need rescue. Climb through a window if you see that.”

It should be said at this point that I had no intention of using either of these signals. I only wanted Watson to feel useful, since he insisted on being brought along. And it might make him more vigilant.

He nodded again. “Rescue. I can manage that. What else?”

“I cannot think of any more contingencies at this time. Once I know the location of the item, I will endeavour to leave, with the watch, if possible.”

He frowned. “He will move it, if he suspects.”

“Yes. That is why we must be careful. If he suspects, he will become more desperate and the danger will be great.”

He rubbed at his cheeks, making them redder than the rouge. “I am prepared to protect you, Holmes. Shall I bring my service revolver?”

“You have a revolver?” I did not know how desperate Trevor might be, but criminals are rarely considerate. In a pinch, a revolver might come in handy, especially if Watson knew how to use it. 

“I am a soldier, Holmes. And a very good shot.”

“All right, bring it, but use it only if our lives are endangered. If he has a gun and seems prepared to use force—” surely Watson, having been a soldier, could figure this out, I thought. “Self defence will be hard to prove, if you are a burglar invading his castle.”

“A burglar?” He stroked his moustache, twirling the ends absently. “A burglar.” He appeared to like the idea. “Holmes, I am afraid that I do not have appropriate costume for this adventure.”

“We can stop by your flat and pick something up,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t… my uniform will be unsuitable for obvious reasons. Burglars do not wear red jackets and white trousers. The only other suit I have is what you have seen, the tweed.”

“Well, I suppose it will have to do.”

He sat up. “Holmes, I am not a man of means. Though you may despise my wardrobe as middle-class, I spent a considerable sum on the tweed. If I am to be lurking behind a hedge, it will not do. Hedges are often prickly. I will tear my trousers. No, I think it should be twill. Much less resistant to damage.”

“If you rip them, I will buy you new trousers, Watson.”

He crossed his arms and frowned down at me. “Burglars do not wear tweed, Holmes.”

I perceived the problem was not the trousers, but Watson’s imagination. “You are right,” I said, acquiescing at once. “We must obtain a proper burglar costume for you.”

In a second-hand clothing store, we were able to find dark twill trousers, slightly worn, and a dark jumper with only a couple moth holes. A navy pea coat and a soft hat completed his costume.

“What about a mask?” he asked.

“Voila,” I said. Having anticipated his wish, I had brought one of my own and now presented it to him.

“How do I look?” he said, putting it on.

John Watson could never pass for a rogue, I decided. Even in a black mask, helooked like a choir boy.

“Like a burglar,” I said diplomatically. “If I did not know you, I would not recognise that it was you.”

“Excellent,” he said, smiling.

 

“Do not arrive at the house before dark,” I instructed him as we prepared ourselves for the evening. “Conceal yourself behind the hedge and await our arrival.”

“Where will you be?”

“I will meet him at his club. He will be surprised to see me and afraid that I will expose him. But I will act naive, pretend I know nothing about his current situation. He will invite me to his home for a drink so that we can converse more privately. Perhaps I can convince him that I am a bit down on my luck and would be interested in joining forces with him.”

“Will he not know of you? Almost everyone has heard of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Of course. But I know the criminal mind. If I am able to make him question my honesty, he might consider me an asset. _As thick as thieves_ , you know. _Birds of a feather._ ”

“I see. And I will wait, spying through the windows, until I perceive you are in danger.”

“Do you remember the signals?”

“Nose-noise. Ear-danger.”

“Very good.” I had put on my black wool trousers and a white dress shirt. “The waistcoat— black or white?” I held them up for his inspection.

“Holmes,” he replied severely. “You’re only going to the club, not the opera. Black will do.”

Once I was dressed to his satisfaction, my unruly hair slicked back, my black swallowtail coat brushed and settled on my shoulders, and my tie properly tied, I took my Inverness off its hook and prepared to go.

Hat in hand, I paused at the door and looked back at him. “Remember, Watson. No unnecessary risks.”

He nodded.

“You look worried,” I said, placing my hat on my head.

“He is a rather… handsome fellow. How much… seduction do you anticipate?”

“It will be a last resort,” I assured him. “As for his appearance, he cannot compare to you.” I leaned down, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. “Do not worry, love. I have no heart to be stolen, for I have already given it to you.”

His face cleared and he gave me a small smile. “Thank you for doing this.”

 

I spent a half an hour at the Byzantine chatting with Peter Lockwood, the only member I knew. All it had taken to get an invitation was to hint that I was working on a case. He was a cautious sort, and refrained from asking me questions, but kept winking at me as if he were in on some caper. I suppressed my annoyance and tried to be amiable. When I saw Armitage enter, I kept my place, watching him out of the corner of my eye. When several more members had entered, I finally took my leave of Lockwood.

“Which is it?” he hissed.

“Mum’s the word,” I hissed back. He winked.

I headed across the room intending to casually cross paths with Trevor.

“By Jove!” I said, when I had spotted him finishing a round of whist. He had not won, and was looking a bit glum. “Can it be you, old man?” I was careful not to use his name, as I intended not to embarrass him in the club.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, his face splitting into a grin. “Well, well.”

I could see the younger Victor there, his firm muscles and dark eyes, but this Victor looked considerably aged. His eyes, once bright, were now bloodshot. He looked a shadow of his former self, his frame much reduced and a bit stooped. I wondered what long detour he had taken after university that had ruined his physique.

I tried to be bluff and hearty, and a bit loud as well, hoping he might suggest that we go elsewhere. He did.

We sat in an almost empty parlour for a bit. I told him of my career. “And to think, Victor, it was you who started me down this path. Awfully sorry about your father, though.A dreadful business, I must say.”

He leaned towards me, resting his hand on the arm of my chair.“Listen, old chap, the less said about Victor Trevor, the better.”

“Beg pardon?”

He gave me a cagey smile. “I’m not going by that name anymore. Now it’s James Armitage, old man.”

I leaned in, conspiratorial. “Do tell. That name brings back some memories. I wonder that you would use it.”

“It’s been a long time. Thanks to you and your brother, that was all hushed up pretty well. And I am, I suppose, perverse enough to find it appropriate to take my father’s true name, after all this. Victor Trevor was a lie, my friend. James Armitage is a much more cunning fellow.”

“Cunning?”

“For the sake of our old _friendship_ , I know I can trust you, in spite of your involvement with Scotland Yard. This is not the place, however, for confessions, even between friends.”

“Say no more.” I smiled and nodded. “Having an inside line at the Yard is often advantageous. One can practically get away with murder once one knows their methods of investigation. A pack of plodding fools, for the most part. I know whom to avoid.”

He laughed. “Holmes, you surprise me. You were such an innocent in those days. I am happy to see that you have given up your naïveté. Come, let us talk somewhere else.”

“My building is under almost constant surveillance,” I said. “The price I pay for dealing with questionable characters. I discuss only legitimate business there. Though I do not mind engaging in a bit of chicanery, I cannot afford notoriety.”

“We can go to my place,” he said. “Townhouse, not far from here.”

We took a cab, though the evening was dry. I paid, of course. Clearly, his resources were drying up. I anticipated that he was pulling in a number of small fish like Watson, hoping to make some quick cash.

As we made our way through his gate, I looked around for Watson, but did not see him. It was now completely dark, so I assumed he had followed my instructions and was lying low behind the hedges.

Trevor waved me into a small parlour and poured me a drink, a twelve-year-old Scotch whiskey. We touched glasses and drank. His eyes did not leave mine.

“So, tell me of this cunning business you are in,” I said.

His grin was lascivious. “Oh, my dear, look at you. You have no idea what seeing you does to me.” Pulling me into a sudden embrace, he kissed me. I felt his tongue exploring my mouth. “God, I could just eat you up. Perhaps I will.” He fell to his knees before me.

As he was fumbling with my flies, I saw shadow in the doorway. A man in black wearing a mask. John Watson. Our eyes met. He pushed the mask up onto his forehead and stared at me with a look of rabid jealousy.

“Oh!” I cried as Trevor’s hand slid through my flies. “The bedroom, perhaps?”

In the doorway, John Watson held up something. A gold watch. He frowned at me and pulled his earlobe. _Danger._ For a moment I feared he might pull out his revolver and shoot Trevor. Instead he glared at me, touched his nose, and slipped away.

“I intend to have you right here, Holmes,” Trevor growled. He pulled my shirt tails out and tugged my trousers down my thighs. 

For a moment I found it difficult to articulate any words.

Then there was a loud crash from the upstairs. Several crashes. Trevor leaped up and went for the door. As he went up the stairs two at a time, I made myself decent and followed him.

When I reached the landing I could see into his bedroom. All the furniture had been upended, the drawers pulled out of the bureau. A safe lay open and empty on the floor. The window stood open.

“A burglar!” Trevor cried.

I hoped my burglar had made it to the ground without injury. “We must call the police.”

“No!” he cried. “No, I’m sure… it looks as if… no, nothing’s amiss. We must have startled him and he fled. Pursuing him will do no good. He is sure to be miles away by the time the police arrive.”

A curious reaction to being robbed, I thought. Or not so curious, when the victim is a criminal himself.

Trevor was going through the rubble of his room, looking for something. His face had reddened. I remembered that expression, that anger, and took a step towards the doorway.

“The police might be interested to know about this, even if the burglar didn’t take anything.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “I cannot call the police.”

“Oh?”

“Just — go! Leave now, Holmes.”

 

Once outside the house, I made for the street, looking around for Watson. I thought of going back to the house to see if he had injured himself getting from the window to the ground, but as I turned, a small shadow stepped towards me and grabbed my arm. “Let’s get away from here,” he whispered.

Once we’d found a cab and started for Baker Street, there was silence between us for a few minutes.

“The watch?” I asked.

“I have it. It was in the safe. With these.” He pulled a thick envelope out of his coat and handed it to me. “Thought it might be something interesting.”

“You cracked his safe? My dear, I had no idea—”

“I do not possess that skill.”

“Then how? Was it open?”

Watson snorted. “He is a man of careless and lazy habits. He cannot even be arsed to remember a combination.”

“Tell me everything, Watson. From the time of your arrival.”

He leaned back, looking a tiny bit smug. “I arrived, as you requested, as soon as it was dark. For a half an hour, I lay behind the hedges, listening and waiting. The house was quiet, his one servant gone. I then climbed up the side of the house and entered through the bedroom window—”

“Climbing into the house was not part of the plan!”

He looked offended. “You said I might climb, Holmes. You even asked if my leg could stand it.”

“But _only_ if the situation warranted climbing, Watson. I think I was clear about that. You were to remain behind the hedge.”

“Damn it, Holmes! I am not a man to wait in hedges. I am a man of action. I saw my opportunity and took it, while you were — I assume — seducing him at the club. I did not even know whether he would bring you to the house. My intuition told me to act.”

“Very well. Continue.”

“I climbed through the window, as I said.” He sounded a bit testy. “The safe was in the wardrobe. Not locked, as I have indicated. I took everything inside it and left, making sure nothing else was disturbed.”

“Good lad.”

“I came downstairs and found that you and he had arrived. In the hall mirror, I could see you talking. He had his back to the doorway. I made my presence known to you — so you would know that the burglary was complete and it was _time to leave._ ”

“I was somewhat occupied at that moment, Watson.”

“Yes, I saw.” He glowered at me. “That’s why I gave you the signal. _Danger_ , meaning: _take your cock out of that man’s mouth and get the hell out of this house._ ”

“I wasn’t, strictly speaking, in any danger, my dear.”

“Yes, but I was, strictly speaking, about to commit murder. You warned me that I wasn’t to kill anyone, but I was not feeling especially rational — at that moment.”

“My dear Watson! But why did you upend all the furniture?”

He rolled his eyes. “Did you not see my signal? It was a diversion, my dear Holmes. As we discussed! Besides, seeing him on his knees, about to play your instrument, made me so angry that I wanted to break something. So I did. When I heard footsteps on the stairs, I went through the window and made my way to the roof, where I listened to see what you and he were up to. When he ordered you out, I climbed down the trellis in the back and made for the street.”

I shook my head in admiration. The cab pulled up in front of our building and we climbed out. Once in the flat, I removed my jacket and sat in my chair, looking through the contents of the envelope.

“Well, it looks as if Mr Armitage was prepared to blackmail a number of people. These papers contain information on many clients of your former establishment, including myself. Your quick action will save many reputations, Watson. These others may never know, but I am grateful to you.”

Watson stood in the doorway, looking a bit lost. “It is I who should thank you.”

“I think not. I would say that you have solved your own case,” I said. “There really is no reason why you should owe me anything.”

“No, I could never have recovered the watch on my own. I didn’t have any plan. I just saw the breach and leaped in.”

“Precisely the kind of partner I need in my line of work. Are you still my man?”

He smiled. “If you will be mine.”

I laid the papers aside, pulled him into my lap, and kissed him soundly. “We make a good team,” I whispered. “Will you promise to guard me so jealously in the future?”

“Always. Only I hope no further seducing will be necessary.”

“Only you, my love.” I held him close. “You were amazing — the climbing, the safe, the diversion, your escape — you’re everything I could ask for in a partner. How is it that you’re so good at this?”

He lay his head on my shoulder, nuzzling into my neck. “I read detective novels, my love.”


End file.
